


Iron Eyes

by RustedBeeWolf (RustedUrsa)



Category: Norse Mythology - Neil Gaiman, Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Alternate Norse Religion & Lore, Alternate Universe - Norse Religion & Lore, Coming of Age, Gen, Not the comics or the movies, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Present Tense, References to Norse Religion & Lore, That same weird tone that Xena has but now it's Norse gods, The power of friendship, This has nothing to do with Marvel, just no, not marvel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-10-31 09:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17847005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RustedUrsa/pseuds/RustedBeeWolf
Summary: A story of murder, betrayal, apocalypse, and other assorted hi-jinks.(Nothing to do with Marvel.)





	1. Travelers

There’s a god in the village again. 

He’s male at the moment. Shortish, broad-shouldered, and wearing a frayed and threadbare cloak that drags on the frozen ground behind him. A broad-brimmed hat shadows his eyes, and a thick beard - white or blond, it’s hard to tell in this mist - obscures the rest of his face and spills over his chest like a cresting wave. His hands look strong under the layers of dirt. One holds a stout walking stick of rough yew that he  _ clearly _ doesn’t need; it barely scrapes the ground with each stride. He’s hunched over like an old man, but his steps are firm and certain. He nods amiably to the few villagers who still linger in the frigid outdoors - a dark-skinned man headed home with a huge bear pelt slung across his shoulder; a young redhead boy herding a small family of goats into their pen; a silent girl in worn-out clothes, with dark grey eyes that notice far more than she ever asked them to.

The god is Odin, he who rules over the gods of the Northmen. Called the Blind God for the loss of his eye, sacrificed to gain great wisdom. Called the Mad God for reasons that don’t bear thinking about.

The village is Paskaholr, a place of little importance, no wealth, and less comfort. Shacks of weathered gray wood, no more than a dozen of them, all sinking into this rocky soil that gives up crops about as willingly as bees give up their hive.

I am the girl. And I can’t take much more of this.

I can’t recall a time when I wasn’t able to see through a magical disguise. I usually don’t know the name of the being under it. Odin, though? He’s hard to miss. This is my third glimpse of Odin the Allfather in my thirteen years of life, and the fifth Aesir overall. To say nothing of the nineteen jotnar, seven elves, and two dwarves I’ve spotted growing up.

It isn’t that this village is special, either. I’ve seen them all over the place. My father and I were driven out of ten villages in as many years before I learned to just keep my big mouth shut about what and whom I saw. It turns out most people don’t like having a child with unexplained powers in their midst. It makes them nervous, and being nervous makes them grouchy, and then they reach for their canes and sticks. 

So, now I mind my own business. Frost giants blighting the crops? Too bad. Trolls tempting young men away to be eaten? Oh, well. Your new houseguest a notoriously dangerous shapeshifter? Not my problem. You can only get sent away with so many beatings before any sense of duty to your neighbors just drops dead.

When Odin the Allfather walks by on the way to what passes for a mead hall in Paskaholr, I do the only sensible thing. Wait until he turns a corner and then bolt like my ass is on fire.

The first snowfall of the year arrived less than an hour before Odin did, but already the path through the village is wet and slippery. My breath pours in clouds as I sprint for home. I stumble more than once in the frozen footprints of villagers and livestock, and can only pray I don’t trod in anything less pleasant than that.

Home is a small farmhouse of gray wood, distinguishable only from the rest of the village by the rocky and stubbornly unfarmable hill on which it is perched. I burst through the creaking door and slam it shut against the unwelcome cold and  _ most _ unwelcome travelers. 

_ “Daaaaad!” _

My father, Asmund, is bent before the hearth, attempting to get the fire hot enough that one can at least feel a difference between inside the house and out. He doesn’t rise at my call, both because we really need that fire, and because rising from his knees isn’t the simple thing it was thirty years ago.

“Another one, huh?” is all he says. Dad gets it.

I slump down before the cold hearth next to him, looking on helplessly as he continues feeding a meager fire that just refuses to produce enough heat.

“It’s  _ him, _ ” I mutter once I’ve caught my breath. “ _ Again. _ ”

Asmund’s leathery face folds into a wry and wrinkled half-smile beneath his white beard. “He does like his road trips,” he replies.

Right. The god of knowledge and wisdom is pretty much always on the move looking for more of the stuff. I fold my knees up to my chin and bury my face in my arms, as much from misery as the cold. 

“I wish we’d never come here.”

Asmund pauses to lay a hand on my shoulder. Though I know the gesture is well-meant, it does little to comfort me these days. Dad’s touch grows colder and frailer with every passing day. It unsettles me to think of losing it altogether.

“They are everywhere, my falcon,” he reminds me. “We can’t flee gods or the giants, only the men who fear you for knowing them.”

“Midgard is supposed to be  _ ours _ ,” I can’t help complaining. It’s a pointless complaint and I know it, but that only makes me want to complain harder. “The whole point of having a human realm is for humans to be left in  _ peace _ .”

“You’re not wrong,” says Asmund with a resigned shrug. “Do  _ you _ want to tell Odin to leave?”

“You know, I’m starting to think I might,” I retort. “At least if he killed me for the insult, I wouldn’t have to keep running into him at random times. I swear it’s like he’s following me!”

“Not at all, falcon,” Asmund says consolingly. “You don’t see more of Odin than anyone else does. It only seems like it because you’re one of the few that recognize him.”

I rest my chin on my arms, remorse overcoming self-pity. He has a point. Much as I do  _ not _ like having gods and monsters and who-knows-what wandering in an out of our lives on a whim… I really shouldn’t whine to Dad about it. The man had already spent most of his life in battle before I was born. Compared to that, I lead a relatively sheltered life.

“We should probably move anyway, once the spring comes,” I say at last. “We’re not making much of a living here.”

“I have to agree, and not just because I seem to be a wretched farmer.” Asmund puts his kindling down in favor of blowing on his fingers, which speaks volumes of how pitiful the fire is. “They don’t seemed to have opened up to us outsiders very much. Perhaps our reputation preceded us.”

I try not to wince. It’s  _ my _ reputation that’s the problem. Hildrid Asmundardottir, girl with the special sight. A gift she had not asked for and  _ really _ did not want, but that was irrelevant. It was nothing but trouble all around. Not only did people not seem to appreciate warnings that the strange traveler they were gossiping about was a powerful jotunn, god, or elf, but the jotnar didn’t appreciate their victims being warned in advance.

Dad sighs as the last bit of wood goes into the fire. It’s a good size by now, and I can’t for the life of me understand why it isn’t any warmer in the house.

“Well,” he says as he gets settled more comfortably beside me, “where would you go, if you had your choice?”

“South,” I answer immediately. The farther from Northmen, the farther from North gods, or so I’m hoping. “So very, very south. We can get into trade in the south. More trade, less winter.”

“Good idea; we can trade Mogop,” Asmund says with good-natured sarcasm, gesturing towards the arthritic old sheep napping in the corner. “I’m sure we could get as much as a single boot for her.”

I snort and roll my eyes, trying to suppress a smile. “I mean we could  _ work _ for a trader. Or -” I pull a face as a less palatable idea occurs- “I suppose I could try to marry one.”

“There’s an idea,” says Asmund. “You’ve become quite the stunning young lady. I bet you’d have your pick of the all the boys who like the smell of sweat and sheep.”

I grin, batting my eyes and pretending to preen my bird’s nest of hazelnut hair. “Oh, father, do you really think so?” I say in a voice that makes him sputter and wheeze with laughter. Mogop starts at the sudden racket and bleats at us scoldingly, which only sets us both off again.

“Alright,” says Asmund at last, as he wipes a mirthful tear away. “South. Although, I don’t know what kind of work I can hope for at my age.”

I’m not worried. My dad is the most cunning person I’ve ever known. He’ll think of something. And I’ll pull my own weight too, of course, even if it really does mean getting married (yuck). I’d much rather pull my weight with a sword, given the opportunity. But I can be pragmatic if it means helping my father. He’s all the family I have.

Of course, we’ve gotta get through the winter first.

 

Night falls. The snow piles up outside. The fire fills the house with rough red glow, but hardly any heat. Asmund and I own three blankets between us. He keeps one for himself and has me bed down under the other two, after wrapping me in both my coat and his own. Mogop flops herself down between us, and Asmund and I bury our fingers in her stinky wool. I’m exhausted, but shivering too much to sleep.

At midnight, there are three loud thumps on our door that shake the floorboards and send loose snowflakes drifting through the cracks in the roof. I look at Dad. Dad looks at me.

Odin knocking on our door. This is a first.

“It might not be him,” Asmund whispers in a creaky voice, but I can tell he doesn’t believe it. Even if I hadn’t seen Odin wander into Paskaholr with my own troublesome eyes, it would still be more likely than one of our neighbors paying a call.

There’s another knock. It has a different character than the first; rapid and sharp, and it doesn’t bring any snow into our house.

“Sounds like the Allfather brought a friend,” I mutter.

“I’ll get the door,” Asmund says. “You wait back here.”

“No,” I say, standing up and handing him back his coat. “I’ll get it. You should stay by the fire.”

I struggle with the door; the wooden pegs have expanded in the cold, making the hinges stick.

“Let me help with that,” says a gentle voice.

The unknown traveler pushes the door open easily. It’s a man a little taller than me, with brown eyes and ebony hair that hangs loose to his elbows. His beard only justs covers his throat. Whatever muscles he used to open that door are lost beneath his piles of winter clothes. His cloak is the yellowest thing I’ve ever seen outside a field of wildflowers, but he is otherwise quite ordinary.

Beside him, in all his scraggly glory, is the Mad God himself. My stomach churns in dismay, but I hold in any hints that I recognize him.

“Please, come in,” I say. “It’s freezing out there.”

“It’s freezing in here,” the black-haired man says in a neutral tone. I can’t tell if he’s concerned for me and my dad, or if he’s disgusted by our poverty. Not much I can do about it either way.

Odin and the black-haired man enter. Odin shakes the snow off his cloak and stomps it off his boots, rattling absolutely every surface. The other man just looks at our home, unmoving. His eyes take on a calculating look as he examines our fire, then he strides back outside without a word. I look over at Dad, not sure what to do.

“Shut that door, child,” Odin barks, and I obey with only a little reluctance. That snowfall is rapidly becoming a snowstorm. I hope the other man will be okay, but I’m not going to let more snow inside for him.

Dad rises to his feet with serious difficulty. I think the cold is aggravating his knee; he toppled from the roof when we were building this shack last spring, and it hasn’t been the same since. Even so, he greets Odin with utmost dignity.

“I am Asmund Leifson. Welcome to my home. I have little to offer, but all I can spare is yours.”

“I am called Sidgrani,” says Odin. It means Long Beard. I try very hard not to roll my eyes. Give a god 170 epithets, and apparently he stops bothering to come up with aliases of his own. “Leifson…” Odin repeats thoughtfully. “I knew a Leif near these parts. Leif Thorveson, if memory serves.”

Asmund doesn’t so much as blink. If you don’t know what to look for, you would think him unaffected by Odin’s words. But I do, and I can see his throat clench from all the way over here.

“That was indeed my father’s name,” says Asmund without emotion, “but I’m afraid can tell you little else. He died in battle some thirty miles to the west when I was nine.”

“Interesting,” Odin replies. “I could have sworn Leif’s son was called Thorver, after his grandfather.”

Asmund’s throat clenches again. “I had an older brother called Thorver. He fell in the same battle as our father. Can I offer you some drink, Sidgrani?”

I watch with some apprehension as Asmund dips into our scant stock of mead for our guest. So far it’s the only thing with a hope of keeping us warm, and we’ve had to ration it pretty strictly. Yet another reason not to want Odin in the house. But I keep my mouth shut. I’ve gotten pretty good at it over the years.

Asmund offers Odin a rough-hewn stool, the only furniture in the room, to sit on beside the fire while he takes a seat on the floor. Odin takes it gruffly, along with a second horn of our mead. Dad doesn’t complain, so I don’t either. I think about joining them near the hearth, but it’s not honestly any warmer there than by the door, so I hang back. “Sidgrani” never removes his hat, presumably because his missing eye is too obvious a clue to his identity. I realize I don’t even know which eye is missing, and I peer closely to see if I can catch some glint or flash of white on his right or left side. The old god is good at hiding it.

The door bursts open with a bang, and I just about jump out of my skin. The black-haired man is back. He has a grin on his face that reminds me of a wolf.

“That should take care of it,” he declares.

“T-take care of…” I am stuttering, when suddenly the wave of heat hits me. Dad backs away from the fire, looking amazed. There is a bead of sweat on his forehead.

Odin nods at his companion, a satisfied smirk on his lips. “What was the problem?”

“Frost giant,” the man replies. “Stealing the heat from the fire. Caught him hiding under one of those big rocks.” He wipes his hand on his yellow cloak, leaving a frightening streak of blood. “That’s where I left him.”

I gape at his hand. “Are you hurt? Should I…” I realize I have no idea what to do.

The man grins. “Not to worry, little one. It’s not  _ my _ blood.”

Odin laughs at me, and my face turns red hot.

The man who killed the frost giant ruffles my hair. I try not to think of what gets left in it. “Take that coat off before you roast,” he advises me. I realize he’s right. Our little shack is getting as warm as we could want. I do as he says.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, managing not to stutter. If it’s true what he says, if a frost giant was hiding out there and making our fire useless, then this man has just saved our lives. I’m suddenly not begrudging the loss of a few horns of mead so very much.

“Please, sir, make yourself at home,” Asmund adds.

The man gives my dad a curt nod and settles cross-legged on the floor, leaning up against the creaking wall. He glances at the bloodstain on his cloak, and then he looks at me wryly.

“My wife is going to kill me.”

I’m not sure I can blame her. Now that I see it up close, the yellow cloak looks to be made of an extremely fine material. I don’t wonder now that Odin chose to let this man tag along. There is something very interesting about him. Though, for once, I can’t tell what it is no matter how hard I look.

With half an ear, I hear Odin speak to Asmund about battles and raids in other lands, ones that I suppose my grandfather must have been involved in. I don’t know much about Leif Thorveson, and I care even less. I don’t get the impression that he treated my father very well.

The black-haired man doesn’t seem interested in joining their conversation; he keeps his attention on me. I think I should feel threatened by this. I mean, recent events would suggest that this man can kill a frost giant with his bare hands. I don’t see how that’s possible, but it’s hard to argue with the results. But his stare, though fixed, is benign. However dangerous this person is, his eyes say they mean me no harm. They are strange eyes, an almost glowing yellow-gold, so clear I can see my own reflection in his pupils. They make me feel small, those eyes, but I can’t help wanting to keep their gaze. Only my father has ever paid me this much attention, and the man hasn’t even spoken a score of words to me yet. I sit on the floor across from him.

“What’s your name, child?”

“Hildrid Asmundardottir.”

I wait for him to give his own. Instead, he tilts his head quizzically. “Hildrid,” he repeats. “Interesting. It means “repeated battle,” doesn’t it.”

He doesn’t say it like it’s a question, but I nod anyway.

“Seems a rather pessimistic thing to call a child. Fighting the same battle over and over again.”

I shrug. “I was a surprise. My father had no idea what to call me. ‘Hildrid’ came to him in a dream, he says.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “A surprise?”

I realize how that sounds, and have to stifle a laugh. “I’m a foundling. Someone abandoned me on a battlefield when I was just under a year old. Asmund abandoned the fight to protect me, and he raised me as his own.”

I’ve never told this to anyone… not because I’m unwilling to speak of it, but because no one has ever cared to ask. I realize as I’m saying it that it’s a pretty depressing story. I honestly never considered how sad it is before. I don’t feel sad about it; I don’t remember a moment of it. I was just a baby.

“Asmund’s a great dad,” I say. “He’s taught me to forage and fish and hunt and skin game. He loves me more than anything.” I blush a little; admitting it sounds like a boast, but it’s a fact I can count on as I can count on the moon waxing and waning. “I’m actually really lucky. I bet it probably doesn’t look like I am,” I gesture sheepishly at the ramshackle hut we’re sitting in, “but I’m happy with Asmund.”

The man has an indefinable expression on his face. It could be he’s smiling and trying not to show it. It could be he’s not paying attention. But I think he’s paying very close attention indeed.

After a moment of silence, I ask the question that’s been gnawing at me since he walked back in. “Um, how did you kill the frost giant?”

“With a rock,” he replies with a shrug. “To the head.”

I stare at him. “That… that really kills frost giants?”

“Kills most things,” he says. “You just need a big enough rock.”

I bite my lip as I ponder that. He’s probably really strong. Weird, because he looks like he might be kinda skinny under all those layers, but okay.

“Well, how did you find it?” I ask carefully. “I didn’t see anything strange out in the fields today.” I don’t add that I’ve been up and down those fields twice a day with my eyes peeled ever since we came to this village. Just because I’ve given up on telling strangers what I see out there doesn’t mean I’m going to stop keeping an eye out for trouble.

Wait a second. If  _ I _ didn’t see the frost giant… a frost giant that was actively attacking my father and me…

“Well, a mortal wouldn’t know a frost giant when they saw one,” the man says mildly. “Not unless it wanted you to. As to why you didn’t see anything at all, it’s because this one was keeping very still and very well hidden. Almost as if it thought a disguise wouldn’t do any good.”

Oh, great.

I glance at Dad and he meets my eyes with a grim nod. He’s been following the conversation, even as he talks to Odin.

That frost giant was hunting me. The word has gotten around in Jotunheim, and now they’re hunting me.

Suddenly, the fire doesn’t seem as warm, even though I’m absolutely drenched in sweat. My stomach is a roiling ball of pain and fire. I love my father, but I want to chain myself to this man who can kill a frost giant with a big rock and never leave his side for the rest of my life. This is the absolute worst thing that could ever happen. I wish I’d never told anybody about my stupid, stupid sight.

I look at my father. He’s getting older. He would not have survived the night with no heat. I know it and so does he. And yet… I would never have been able to make him take back his coat.

I’ve always known Dad would protect me with his life. I just didn’t think he would ever need to.

Asmund just looks at me with the same calm gaze that has comforted me all my life. He’s not even a little bit scared. He’s the bravest person I’ve ever known. I can be like him, if I try hard enough. I can make him proud. And if I have to, I can protect him too.

I look at the black-haired man. His eyes haven’t left me. I still can’t read his expression. I see true forms, I don’t read minds. He hasn’t even told me his name. But he has told me something far more important.

And I owe him for it.

 

I wait until the men have all fallen asleep to repay my debt. I crawl across the floor to my cot, which I have loaned to the black-haired man. I can just make out his yellow cloak in the darkness. I prod him gently until he rolls over and looks at me. His eyes look more than ever like they are glowing. His brow furroughs slightly, but I don’t think he’s angry with me.

I feel a cold lump in the pit of my stomach. I haven’t done something like this in years. I’m taking a horrible risk, letting a man who can kill a frost giant know that I have this weird power. But he saved my life, and my dad’s, and I owe him. I’m not going to let him wander around Midgard with one of the most dangerous traveling companions in the nine worlds without at least a warning.

“I need to tell you something,” I whisper as quietly as I can. “It’s really important.”

The man sits up without a word and positions himself between me and the others. He stares at me solemnly.

I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

“The man you’re traveling with, the one who calls himself Sidgrani. He’s really Odin in disguise.”

The man stares at me. His face doesn’t change. Not a twitch, blink, or frown. Nothing.

“I’m serious,” I insist, a little too harshly. “That’s Odin the Allfather.”

“How do you know?” he whispers back.

I freeze. I have literally never been asked that in my entire life.

“I don’t know,” I admit at last. “I just do. I can see through disguises. I’ve seen Odin three times, in three different villages. I’ve seen elves, and dwarves, and jotnar too. And other gods. I don’t know why.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Why does this guy keep asking me weird questions? I have no idea what to do with this. Normally at this point in the conversation, they’d be reaching for a stick.

“You saved us from that frost giant. I don’t have any other way of paying you back. Odin is dangerous. You should get a warning, at least.”

“Hmmm.”

I wait. The man says nothing. I consider just going back to sleep. I mean, I’ve done my fair share. What he does with this information is up to him. And if he’s not going to beat me, well, it’s not my business what he does next.

Except… then he gets up.

He walks over to Odin, who is sleeping on my father’s bedroll.

_ And he kicks Odin in the side. _

“Hey. Dumbass. Wake up. We need to leave.”


	2. Over the Rainbow

I stare at the man in utter shock and horror. I had imagined this conversation going about thirty different ways, and, yeah, most of them sucked, but this was nowhere near on the list.

“Hey,  _ moron, _ ” he says more forcefully. “It’s time to wake up.” He kicks Odin again, this time on the rump. Odin snorts and starts to turn over, and I’m pretty sure we’re all about to die.

Odin is noisy when he wakes up. He groans and grunts and I’m pretty sure he farts at least once. A high-pitched noise that is distantly related to a laugh escapes my mouth before my throat closes in fear.

The Allfather glares at the black-haired man. “I don’t care what you want,” he huffs. “Whatever it is, it’s too early for it.”

“What’s going on?” Asmund demands. He gets to his feet with a speed that almost hides his ruined knee. He gets a look at my face and stands between me and our guests. That’s what snaps me into action. I’m not gonna die on my butt while Dad gets to go on his feet, even if we do end up in the same place. I get up and stand beside my father. The black-haired man gives me an approving half smile.

Odin just glares at all of us. He doesn’t look enraged, only annoyed. Honestly, that’s more than bad enough. His hat has fallen to the floor, leaving his head bare. There’s a bald patch in the middle of the swirl of white hair. Strings of it hang over his face. His eye glowers at the black-haired man from his left socket. It’s a perfect cornflower blue, even in the red light of the glowing embers.

“Rise and shine, doofus,” says the black-haired man, tossing the floppy hat right into Odin’s face. “We got the answer we came for. We can go home now.”

“You’re kidding,” Odin grunts. “How the blazes did you figure it out?”

“She told me.” The man points to me. My dad pushes me a little behind him in response. I try to pretend I don’t want to hide behind his back.

“The girl?” Odin’s bright eye bores into me, now more intrigued than annoyed. I think his interest might be worse for its target than his ire, now that I think about it. “What did she tell you?”

“She can see through magic,” the man explains. He winks at me. “Most of it, anyway.”

He can’t possibly mean what I think he does.

“That. Is. Ridiculous,” says Odin dismissively. “It takes ages to learn that kind of power. She’s way too young. You’re not fooling anyone.”

“She saw through  _ your _ stupid disguise. Knew who you were right from the get-go.”

Odin looks down at himself and tries to hide a look of chagrin. “Well… I mean… it’s not like this is my  _ best _ work…”

The man snaps his fingers at me. “Three times, you said?”

I nod. Dad squeezes my hand, and my throat reopens enough for me to talk. “Counting today. Paskaholr, Kaldervik, and Apalthorn. In Kaldervik you were a tall man with golden skin and long, dark hair, and in Apalthorn you were a blond woman with a blue cloak.”

Odin stares at me for a long moment. His expression has gone flat and unreadable.

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “I’ll need to check with Muninn, but I’m pretty sure that’s right. So, what?”

“So, it’s not just you,” the man continues. “There’s been jotnar, too. Tell him how many, kid.”

I swallow hard. “Um… nineteen. Most of them were trolls. There were a couple giants.”

“They try to eat your neighbors?” the man asks.

I nod. “Yeah. They come disguised as animals most of the time. But when I was seven, there was one…” I shiver just thinking about it. “A stone giant, I think. We were living in some place by a quarry. A bunch of villagers were lost in a rock slide in late spring, and he was showing up on the outskirts disguised as them. He’d lure their loved ones into the mountains, one by one. They were never seen again.” My eyes sting with tears. Asmund pulls me close against his side.

Odin grunts. “My ravens told me about that one. He got a taste for human flesh after that rockslide, and decided start hunting villagers instead of deer.”

“Hildrid tried warning the villagers, but no one would listen,” Asmund continues softly. It’s something of an understatement. I still have a scar on my neck from a leather whip, courtesy of the village jarl. “So we set a trap for the giant together. We tracked it to its lair and lay in wait. When it was bringing another victim along, we triggered a rockslide of our own. The stone giant had to transform in order to avoid being crushed. Once it was unmasked, it fled and never returned. But… we were no longer welcome there.”

“Why not?” Odin asks. “Sounds like they’d all be dead without you.”

“It was me,” I reply morosely. “They said I was unnatural. And that I probably drew the giant to them.”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” Odin snorts. “That stone giant was probably in those mountains before that village was ever settled. It was just bad luck.”

Asmund squeezes my shoulders. “They were fools. You can see why it was no place to raise such a gifted daughter.”

The black-haired man studies my father briefly. His eyes in this moment are the warmest I have seen them. Then he turns back to Odin.

“You get it now, dummy? She can warn people when there’s monsters stalking them. It’s no wonder they sent one to kill her.”

“Oh, I don’t do that anymore,” I protest. “They throw rocks or they beat me with sticks, and then we have to find a new place to live. Warning people isn’t worth the trouble.”

“You warned me,” the man reminds me.

I squirm a little. I want to protest that it was only because I owed him. I don’t want to think about all the times I’ve justified warning someone long after I’d vowed never to do it again.

I don’t want to think about how this is all my fault.

“Okay,  _ fine, _ ” Odin sighs. “It was the girl after all. You win the bet. Just try not to give me too much crap about it in front of the others.”

“What?”

Odin looks back at me, and I could swear he seems embarrassed. “We caught the sense of a jotunn on our way home, but we couldn’t see it. We wanted to know what it was stalking and why. Your father is the son of one of my Valhalla warriors, so I figured it would be him. My brother bet me that it was you. I assumed he was just doing to be annoying.”

“I kind of was,” the man admits. He’s grinning like this is the funniest thing to happen in months. “I sure didn't expect the kid to be  _ this _ interesting.”

My jaw drops. “You’re… Odin’s  _ brother? _ But, I… you just look like an ordinary man!”

The man’s grin starts to melt, and that’s not a figure of speech. His flesh morphs like wet clay under an invisible sculptor’s hands. He grows taller, paler, his nose and ears thin and lengthen, and his hair goes from stark black to shimmering chestnut cut just at his shoulders. His beard vanishes, and his eyes turn pale glacial green. He is a completely different man when the change is finished, yet I still can’t tell just by looking that there is anything magical about him. If I hadn’t watched him change his shape, I would swear that this new man was as ordinary as the old.

“Loki Laufeyjarson,” he says with a mocking bow. “Brother of Odin, father of the World Serpent, and pain in the collective asses of pretty much every god you've ever heard of. At your service.”

 

Loki. 

Loki the Trickster is in my house. 

How in the nine worlds did that happen? 

 

Odin is still drowsy and he makes us all sit back down to talk. I sit beside my father, huddled under his arm like a duckling under its parent’s wing. Odin and Loki hare having a heated argument, which I’ve only been half following in my dazed state.

“Alright. So, the girl has had one frost giant try to kill her,” Odin says gruffly. “You said you took care of it.”

“I took care of  _ that _ one,” says Loki. “I don’t know if you’re aware, there are a  _ number _ of frost giants around these days, none of whom are particular fond of mortals.”

Odin grumbles something that I will never forget and  _ never _ repeat. “You can’t honestly be trying to tell me that  _ every _ jotunn is going to be threatened by this one weird little girl. She had the bad luck to anger that one, and now she’ll be more careful.”

“You’re not hearing me, idiot,” Loki says. “That one out there was  _ sent _ to kill her.”

“What did you do, ask its life story before you crushed its head with a rock?” Odin asks dryly.

“It was weak,” Loki explains. “And stupid. It watched me walk right up to it, and didn’t even realize I could see it until the rock was hitting its face. A weak, stupid giant this deep into human civilization should be half starved. And yet, it was well-fed,  _ and _ had learned a fairly powerful heat-sinking spell. In short, a stooge. I’ll bet you double or nothing that a much more powerful frost giant sent a minion to clear out his biggest obstacle before he claims the territory.”

I can’t handle this. A monster just came inches from killing me and Dad, and now there’s two gods in my house casually talking about how it is definitely all my fault. There’s a choking sound nearby and the glowing red hearth blurs across my vision and it’s because I’m crying.

Asmund holds me tight and strokes my hair. I can just barely make out the sounds of Odin and Loki continuing to talk or bicker. Good. I don’t want their attention while I’m like this.

“It’s okay, falcon,” Dad whispers. “It’s going to be okay.”

Falcon. He’s called me that ever since he found out about my sight. It’s his way of trying to make me feel proud of it. Sometimes it works. Right now it makes my stomach hurt.

“It’s my fault,” I manage between sobs.

“Never,” Dad replies gently. “You’re a good girl, Hildrid. You use your gift because you’re too good not to. You are not to blame for the evil in other creatures.”

“Your dad’s right,” I hear Loki say. “It’s going to be okay.”

I look up to see him kneeling over me. Any other girl who knows the stories that I do would be terrified by that. 

I am not any other girl.

Loki Laufeyjarson is older than anything in the mortal world, including the god who sits behind him. He is capable of deceiving anyone he cares to, including me. His shapeshifting is magic that my weird eyes cannot beat. He is unfathomably dangerous to anyone and everyone.

Still, somehow, I know that I am not in danger. At least not tonight. Because I’ve seen creatures who meant me harm. I’ve looked into their eyes on more occasions than I even want to think about. Both mortal and monster. And that’s not what I’m seeing here.

And even more than that, Asmund seems completely at ease. I realize he’s been relaxed ever since Loki revealed himself.

I’ll need to ask about that.

“There, that’s better,” says Loki, smiling as the tears stop falling. He ruffles my hair again.

“I didn’t mean to put my dad in danger,” I croak out. I don’t know why, but I desperately need everyone to know that. I would never have put us in this position on purpose.

Loki taps my nose. “Didn’t think that for a moment. You’re a good kid, Hil, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Odin says. “And the answer is no. Absolutely not.”

I catch the beginnings of a malicious grin spreading on Loki’s face as he turns away. “I wasn’t asking.”

“We don’t even know they’re still in danger,” Odin protests. “No frost giant is going to want this territory after they find one of their own dead in the fields. We can put them somewhere far from here and they can just keep their heads down from now on.”

“Not this one.” Loki glances back at me with a nod. “This one’s a total Valkyrie. I can tell.”

“Don’t let Freya hear you say that. Valkyries aren’t supposed to shiver like rabbits or be built like twigs.”

“She’d just keep trying to protect people from the monsters  _ you _ let in here, and then we’d be right back to square one.”

“Me?” Odin sputters indignantly. “I don’t  _ let _ jotnar wander around Midgard. I put up a wall specifically to keep them out!”

“Yeah, because those  _ always _ work.”

I look up at Asmund. “There’s a wall around Midgard?” I whisper.

“News to me,” he murmurs back with a shrug. “Doesn’t seem to work.”

Loki laughs so hard that he snorts. Odin’s face turns such a dark red that it blends into the shadows of his beard.

“That’s it,” Odin growls. “You are not keeping them.”

“Oh, I definitely am,” Loki chortles.

Wait, what?

“ _ No _ ,” Odin insists. “Look, we can send them over the sea to live with those tanned guys with the great dances. There’s got to be at least one tribe who know how to treat a girl with magic eyes. No jotun is going to think to look for them there. It’s too far away for a mortal to get there overnight, and nobody will ever know we were here.”

“I do like those guys,” Loki says. “But you know what’s even safer than their place? Our place!” The Trickster turns to me, and his eyes are definitely glowing now. “What do you say, kid? You want to move to Asgard?”

“ _ Seriously?! _ ” I squeal in the highest pitch I’ve ever reached. “Yes yes yes yes  _ yes! _ ”

“Loki. No,” Odin scolds.

“Loki, yes,” Loki replies. “You lost, remember? Our little bet?”

“That was… we didn’t even define terms! It was a stupid casual bet!”

“You still lost. That means I get a forfeit.”

Odin covers his face with both hands and groans in exasperation. When he looks back at Loki, he looks beaten.

“One. You can have one.”

“Oh, you’re so adorable,” says Loki. He turns to me and jerks a thumb at Asmund. “You said he’s a good dad, right?”

I nod vigorously. “The best.”

Loki looks at my father expectantly. “Soooo, if I take your daughter to the world of the gods…”

“I will follow you,” Asmund deadpans instantly. “Wherever you go. Also, she’d definitely escape.”

I can’t help beaming with pride at that.

“And if I tried to take you?”

“Same thing, but backwards.”

Loki smirks at Odin, and Odin throws up his hands. “ _ FINE, _ ” he hollers. The boom of his voice causes the wood to crack, and we all get covered with a dusting of snow. He ducks his head sheepishly. “Er, sorry about that.”

Loki claps his hands. “Right. Coats on, everybody. It’s time to cast off.”

 

Seems the snowfall settled down after the frost giant was dead. It’s only about ankle-high, and makes a satisfying crunch under my boots. I gaze down the hill at the sleeping gray village below. The snow does a good job of hiding the sight and smell of goat crap that is Paskaholr’s defining attribute. I stare and this place that I spent nine months of my life trying to call home, waiting in raptures for the moment when I can turn my back on it for the last time.

Asmund is taking Mogop, our single elderly sheep, to the next farmhouse over. The couple who live there were always jerks to us, but they have five kids with a sixth on the way, so they could use the wool the most. Besides, the kids aren’t so bad.

Loki appears from behind the farmhouse, where he’d disappeared after Asmund left on his errand. His boots and fine yellow cloak looks like he’s soaked them in a pool of blood, along with his hands and sleeves. He looks thoroughly pleased with himself.

Odin eyes him wearily. “Do I even want to know?”

Loki scoops up some snow and pats it into a ball, which turns bright red as it cleans his hands. “Left a warning. The mortals won’t see it, but any giants or trolls who pass by will.”

“That was nice of you,” I offer.

Odin snorts. Loki shrugs. “I don’t like jotnar who target kids,” he explains, tossing the scarlet snowball off into the darkness. “They know what happens when I find them.”

Interesting.

Odin is stamping his feet impatiently when Asmund gets back. It’s not as cold out as it was when the frost giant was alive, but it’s not balmy either. “Are we all done?” he growls in annoyance. “My privates are trying to crawl back inside my body.”

“You’re such a wimp,” says Loki.

Asmund looks apologetic. “The wife of the house woke up and thought I was stealing from the herd. I had to explain that I was leaving an animal, not taking one. I’m sorry to keep you all waiting.” He gets a good look at Loki’s condition and blinks in astonishment. “What in the world happened to you?”

“Never ask Loki how he got covered in blood,” says Odin, shaking his head. “Just trust me on this one.”

Without waiting for a reply, Odin claps his hands together and then holds his hands above his head.

There’s a pounding from above, as if the sky suddenly has a heartbeat. I feel it more than hear it. It drives through the clouds and into my skull. It doesn’t hurt exactly, but I take Asmund’s hand anyway. He gives it a reassuring squeeze.

Light - all light everywhere, it seems like - pours out of the clouds like water from a pitcher. It’s every color I’ve ever seen, every color I’ve ever heard of, and more. Colors I didn’t know were possible. It bows down in a steep arch, and when it reaches our feet I realize just how big it is. Wider around than the largest oak I’ve ever seen. Up close, the colors are all woven together, a tapestry of light, reds braided into golds that bind themselves to greens. It has a pulse that I can feel through the air, and it shimmers like dewdrops on a spider’s web with each beat. It radiates warmth and life, like the body of a loving pet all snuggled up to you, and it smells of storm clouds and wildflowers.

It’s Bifrost. The Rainbow Bridge. The passage the gods take between worlds. It’s really here, this is really happening.

I’m going to Asgard.

“Right, I’m out of this crap hole,” says Odin, striding up the steep arch of the rainbow.

Loki turns to me and waves a hand towards Bifrost. “After you.”

My blood turns white-hot with excitement, and I give a jubilant squeal. Before I know it, I’m bounding forward, and I take a good running leap at the Rainbow Bridge…

… and end up on my butt in six inches of snow.

I look up. I didn’t miss Bifrost; it’s right there above my head. I reach up and my hand passes right through it. I feel some warmth, some shifting air currents, but nothing else. Like passing my hand through a… beam of light.

_ Damn it! _

“Huh,” says Loki. “Probably should have seen that one coming.”

“What’s the hold up?” Odin calls from some forty feet above our heads.

“The humans can’t walk on the bridge,” Loki answers.

“Really?” Odin scratches his rat nest of a beard. “That’s not right. It’s only supposed to burn giants who try to invade Asgard.”

“It’s not burning them, they just pass right through it.”

Dad walks through the Rainbow Bridge to give me a hand up. As majestic as it appears, it just reacts to us like ordinary light.

“Weird,” says Odin. “Well, your problem now. See ya!” He turns and vanishes into the clouds.

“Jerk,” Loki mutters.

I brush the snow off my backside before it can melt through my old clothes. “What do we do now?” I ask, trying not to sound as sulky as I feel.

“Relax, kid. I’ve got this.” Loki interlocks his fingers and stretches them back. “We just need to come at this from a different angle.”

I look up at Dad to see if he has any ideas. He’s just watching Loki calmly, patiently. I really need to ask him what he’s thinking the next time we’re alone.

“So, old man,” says Loki with an unreadable grin. “What would you do if you were me?”

Asmund doesn’t even blink. “If I were the Loki that my mother liked to tell stories about, I would transform the two of us into something small enough to carry without trouble, and take us to Asgard that way.”

“ _ Ooooh, _ like in that one about the kid and the troll!” I exclaim.

Loki nods in approval. “One of my proudest moments,” he says. “So, you two don’t mind traveling in my pocket?”

“I don’t mind,” says Asmund, “as long as I’m with my daughter.”

“Let’s do it!” I cheer. This is going to be amazing!

“Cool,” says Loki, grinning. Then he turns to me. “Okay, turn your back and close your eyes real quick. I just want to try something.”

I obey to the letter. I hear a quiet puff of air, but nothing else. Loki taps me on the shoulder. When I turn, he’s holding a pebble, a pearl, an acorn, a leaf, and a feather in his hands.

“So, which -” he starts.

“That’s Dad,” I say, pointing to the acorn. “And that’s not a pearl, but I can’t tell exactly what it is.”

“Not bad,” he says, grinning. “Just so you know, I’m gonna be testing you, like,  _ all _ the time.”

“Can’t be worse than getting hit with sticks,” I reply.

Loki carefully pockets the acorn that is my father, and lets the rest of his items drop to the snow. The pearl becomes another ordinary pebble.

“Okay, shut your eyes again. It’s acorn time.”

 

Being an acorn is…  _ weird. _

I’m just little and hard and it’s time to sleep. When I sleep I dream about roots and dirt and yummy sunshine and all the worms that will crawl under me and the birds that will nest in my arms. I sleep a lot, and the dreams are nice. I could get used to them. But sometimes I’m awake and then things are just wrong. I’m in a pocket. It’s warm, but there’s no dirt so it’s time to sleep -  _ no _ , I’m a girl, not an acorn. It’s strange because I don’t have arms or legs soft worms crawling around my roots -  _ stop that. _

I try to sleep as much as possible. I really hope we land soon.

 

Loki puts me on the ground beside my father-tree - my  _ father _ , damn it - and suddenly I’m myself again. Soft skin, long tangled hair, the arms and legs that I’m  _ supposed _ to be growing that are only  _ built _ like twigs. I’m Hildrid, a human girl, just turned thirteen. Not an acorn.

I hug my father the moment Loki turns him back. He staggers a little, but he doesn’t show any discomfort.

“I hated that,” I say. “Let’s never do it again.”

“I didn’t notice anything,” says Asmund. “One moment we were standing in front of our old house, and the next we were here.”

Loki’s brow furrows. “That’s how it’s supposed to work. Acorns aren’t conscious.”

“Well,  _ I _ was,” I insist. “I kept having weird dreams about worms and dirt and growing branches. And I’d wake up and have to keep reminding myself that I’m human, even though I was just in this tiny hard shell.”

“Huh,” says Loki, in that same voice he used when I fell through the Rainbow Bridge. “So, you saw through the magic even when it was on you. You don’t have your own shapeshifting abilities, do you?”

“Um… not that I know of?”

“Hmm.”

“Are you alright, my falcon?” Dad asks, bending down to get a better look at me.

“I’m fine,” I assure him. “I just never want to do that again. I kept being afraid I was going to lose myself.”

“Right,” Loki claps his hands and rubs them together against the cold. “Hil, while you are a very interesting little girl and I can’t wait to try you out, I think we all need to get inside. And you two twigs need some food.”

My stomach does a growling backflip at the suggestion. I remember the dreams about eating sunlight and realize they’ve stoked my appetite into an inferno.

Loki gazes up at the moonless sky. “Got another couple of hours until dawn,” he murmurs speculatively. “What’s open this time of night?” His eyes scan the horizon. I follow his gaze eagerly, but I can barely make out anything of our new home in this darkness.

“I think we’re stuck with Valhalla,” Loki sighs. “Come on.”


	3. Fun for the Whole Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of hate this chapter and hate how long it took. I _really_ hate Valhalla. Trying to picture and then describe the physically impossible is a sucker's game. I can't even imagine what it must do to the Who-vians.

Valhalla?  _ The  _ Valhalla? My whole body shivers, but it has nothing to do with the cold, and I have to fight the urge to jump up and down and squeal with excitement. Sure, I’ve eaten in mead halls before, but obviously nothing as amazing as Valhalla.

“You are not taking my daughter to that place,” Asmund says flatly.

_ What? Come on! _

“I am if you want her to eat tonight,” Loki replies, though he doesn’t really sound thrilled himself. “At this hour, the regular feasting hall is just booze, noise, and more booze. Assuming there’s anyone not passed out on the floor. And I’m not going to try to get my wife to start cooking at this hour.” He grimaces slightly. “Again.”

“Please, Dad, please,” I beg, “I’m  _ so _ hungry.” And I want to see the legendary Valhalla. Please, please, please, please, please.

“How would we even get in?” Asmund asks Loki, respectfully but clearly skeptical. “Valhalla is the Hall of the Slain. Thanks to you, we’re very much not in that category.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I know a guy,” Loki retorts. “Now, keep up, or the only dinner you get will be my dust.”

Loki strides forward and we almost lose him in the darkness. I have to grab Asmund by the hand and pull him to catch up.

I already can see where we're headed, though at the moment it’s little more than a blur of light at the top of a steep hill. I’ve heard stories about this golden place ever since I was little, though they were never stories I could get my father to tell with any enthusiasm. It is the home the bravest warriors, those slain in battle doing heroic deeds or fighting in Odin’s name. At the end of every battle on earth, Odin and Freya are there, gathering up the souls of the slain. Then Odin takes his chosen warriors on to Valhalla.

The ground begins to slope upward, slowly growing steeper the farther we walk. I can see the light from the legendary hall growing brighter, slowly overtaking the entire horizon. I lean forward into the climb, dropping Dad’s hand with only a pinprick of guilt. I dig my feet into the frozen soil. I’m panting thick clouds as I run faster, climb harder. I grab at the ground with my hands, propelling myself to the peak, leaving my father and Loki behind. I need to see this. It’s just at the top, right?

…

There is a valley below us, at the foot of a hill that is much farther down on the other side. It spans as far as I can see in either direction. Though the sky above is a pitch-black night, the snow-covered ground glows as bright as midday, illuminated by the great Hall of the Slain.

Valhalla is…  _ beyond _ enormous. To say that it dominates the valley is an understatement. It’s beyond any hall I’ve ever seen. It could contain every village I’ve ever seen or lived in, and they would not amount to more than a handful of seeds rattling inside a hollow gourd. No matter how far I strain my eyes or crane my neck, I cannot for the life of me see where it ends or begins. It seems to go on for miles on either side, blurring into the firelight in the distance. I know the walls of Valhalla are built, not of stone or lumber, but of shields, but from here I can’t distinguish one shield from another. The building has a metallic sheen, looking like the carapace of an enormous silver and bronze beetle.

Light pours out of every open door… 540 of them, according to the stories. I had never given any thought to how large a number that was. Like the hall itself, they just go on without end, so that Valhalla is almost more door than wall. The stories also state that each door is wide enough to admit 800 warriors walking abreast. When I’d first heard that, I had simply pictured really, really wide doors, but these look normally proportioned in every way, just bigger. My eyes keep tricking me into thinking that they are normal-sized. Which means that I cannot even really  _ see _ how large this building is. Valhalla might be as high as my own world’s tallest trees… its tallest  _ mountains, _ for all I know… and I can’t even see it.

And if I can’t tell how big Valhalla is, then I can’t reliably even see how deep the  _ valley _ goes.

This must be what awe feels like. A wonderful sensation of your own sense of what is possible being forever expanded beyond recognition, combined with a bottomless terror of realizing just how small you truly are.

I feel a hand grip the back of my coat, pulling me back from the edge of the hill and back into myself. I realize my knees are shaking, and I was just about to fall forwards off the hill. I look up and see Loki beside me. He has this look in his eye… like he’s searching me for something. It makes me uneasy, and sort of embarrassed. Then he smiles, and my body uncoils itself. 

“Yeah,” he says casually. “You get used to it.”

Asmund catches up and takes my hand again. I’m not about to let go anytime soon. I watch him as he takes in the sight below us, but all he does is raise an eyebrow and give a long, quiet whistle.

My dad is so cool.

 

We follow Loki down the hill, which is even steeper than it looks. Loki seems to know it well enough, though, and if the path he leads us on is a bit indirect with all its twisting and turning, it’s at least more walk than climb.

I’m not sure why, but the snow only starts about halfway down into the valley. It’s packed hard and frozen solid. Loki and I are light enough to walk without breaking it, but Asmund sinks halfway to his knee with every step, so it’s slow going as we wait for him.

I’m trying to look everywhere but at Valhalla, to keep from having to wrap my mind around it again. But even staring at the snow reminds me of its presence, for there’s enough light reflected from its doors that it could be midday here, and not well past midnight.

Thankfully, with that light comes heat, and soon enough we’re back on the ground with no snow to slip on or trudge through. 

I’m suddenly overtaken by the most wonderful smells, and I remember that the souls here feast on boar meat every night. The one time I was anywhere near boar meat was when we lived in Apalthorn. A juvenile male wandered into the nearby woods, and an enthusiastic hunting party of basically every man in the village went after it. There was a huge bonfire in the village square, and everybody but us got a cut of meat. I stole the leg bones when no one was looking, and that night Asmund boiled them into the best soup I ever had. I better not think about what the meat here tastes like, or I might actually start to drool.

“Gods,” I hear Asmund breathe, and I look up. We’re right at the threshold of one of the five hundred and forty doors. It’s big enough to make me wonder if Loki left us the size of acorns when he returned us to our human shapes. I don’t even want to know what’s holding it up. I look off to the side, and the far end of the threshold almost vanishes into the horizon. And that’s just one door. I resolve not to think about it.

With nowhere else to go, the three of us step inside.

I thought nothing could compare in intensity to the light, heat, and smell of Valhalla. I failed to consider the noise.

Rows and rows of tables, each packed with fully armed and armored warriors. I mean, they are  _ crammed _ together, as if an infinite amount of space could only barely fit them all. My eyes water just trying to take in the variety of armor that I see. It must be from all over the world, from all over  _ history. _ I see everything from the finest chainmail to common leather plate and gambeson. Everyone who wishes can have a crack at Valhalla, regardless of wealth. And once here, they all sit on the same level. The warriors are so loud, I’m amazed they don’t bring down the hall with their racket. Their voices blur together into a kind of roaring ocean of noise. But if I focus, I can sort of make out what I’m hearing from table to table. Argument, drinking song, argument, drinking song, argument, argument, drinking  _ contest _ , more arguments… there’s a lot of arguments. Oh, I think one of them just became a  fistfight a few tables over. Wait, make that two.

“The old man must love this,” Asmund mutters.

“Alright, enough sightseeing,” says Loki, amused. “Dinner ain’t gonna eat itself.”

Loki threads his way through the tables, and we can do nothing but follow. Despite the massive…  _ everything _ … of this place, I can still feel Dad’s discomfort in the way he grips my hand. I give it a squeeze, and smile when he catches my eye. He knows, and I know, that we are going to run into someone he doesn’t want to see. The fact that running into one specific person in a room of millions is next to impossible doesn’t even factor in our thinking. We were acorns. We got carried up a rainbow. Impossible is the theme of the night. But we’re going to get a hot meal, and a new home, and I’m going to be right here. I’m not letting Asmund face anybody alone.

We get to the head of the hall faster than should be physically possible, considering how many miles it must extend. No, I refuse to think about it. It’ll just make my brains hurt. There’s a golden dias about twice the height of a grown man against the wall of bronze shields, between two sconces that each blaze as brightly as the fire we’d burned in our little hearth. Through the packed crowd of feasting warriors, I can just make out two wolves napping on the floor, looking like two fat balls of fur against the wall of gold. 

Up on the dias, another table stretches from one end of the room to the next. But this one is not packed. Odin the Allfather sits alone. I’ve seen through three of his disguises, but I have never gotten such a good look at his true form before. He is tall, easily the tallest man I have ever seen. He has the strength of a thousand mortal men, and a body that shows it. He has changed his white beard for one as gold as an oak tree in autumn, and it drapes over his broad chest, as perfectly groomed as a bride’s hair. Perched on each shoulder are the famous ravens he keeps, named Huginn -  _ Thought _ \- and Muninn -  _ Memory _ . They travel the world by day and return to Odin to whisper what they’ve learned into his ears. (Odin really cannot go ten seconds without wanting to learn something new.) As he listens to his ravens, he also watches; though his bright blue eye appears fixed straight ahead, it also appears to follow me wherever I move. I’ll bet anyone else who stares in Odin’s direction feels the same way.

Huh, the eye’s on his right. Weird, I could have sworn it was the other one. Well, anyway, I can’t deny that Odin cuts an extremely regal figure in his golden armor and winged helmet. That’s a leader of gods right there.

Loki walks up to Odin’s dias with a walk so relaxed that it borders on a swagger. It really sinks in just how small he looks, surrounded by these countless mountains of muscle, but he just smiles as if he owns the place. It’s oddly comforting. One of the wolves growls at his approach, but Loki takes no notice.

“Table for three,” he calls up to the Mad God.

Odin’s eye narrows, and he takes his knife and flicks a slice of boar meat to the growling wolf to silence him. Watching that animal eat is going to make my stomach turn inside out, so I keep my eyes up.

“This is not a public hall,” Odin says sternly. His voice isn’t swallowed up by the noise as I expected it to be, but echoes as if he were speaking in a grand chamber.  “This meat is for my chosen warriors, my Einherjar. Take your pet mortals elsewhere, brother.”

“Save it, Alldaddy,” says Loki. I snort in surprise, and clap both hands over my mouth to keep from bursting out in laughter. “I’ve been up all night and I haven’t eaten since yesterday. You want a cranky trickster running around? Go ahead and try to throw me out.”

Odin gives Loki a dead-eyed stare, and I can now see the connection between the gleaming warrior king and the farting old man that invaded my house. Loki meets Odin glare for glare until Odin shrugs. He gestures off to the side. “Just don’t get plastered again, is all I ask.”

“Never crossed my mind.” Loki waves to Odin, and saunters off. Asmund and I follow close behind.

Loki finds what must be the one table in this entire place with any empty space. The men feasting here are even somewhat quiet, in that they are more interested in stuffing their faces than yelling at each other. They’re still managing to do that with more volume than I’ve ever managed anything.

The table is about the height of my nose, and the bench looks like it’s going to be a chore to climb on. Loki gives me a hand up before I can ask, and I take it without complaint and only a twinge of embarrassment. I make a silent promise to myself to get more things done on my own. Once I’ve had a hot meal and good night’s sleep, that is.

A plate appears in front of me, and now I’m not even conscious of anything that isn’t food. The boar meat is scalding hot, but it’s sweet and delicious and  _ oh my gods I am so hungry. _ I tear into that boar with a ferocity that would make Odin’s wolves back away slowly. I would be devouring it even if it had been burned to a crisp and the fact that it is the most incredible thing I’ve ever tasted just brings tears to my eyes.

“Slow down,” Asmund warns. “You’re going to -”

_ HICCUP. _

I growl a curse under my breath, covered by Loki’s laughing. Hiccups are ridiculous enough as they are, but mine tend to sound like a goose getting a kick in the backside. And they’re obnoxiously, ear-splittingly loud, which means I have the attention of the entire table and then some.  _ HICCUP. _

I snatch up the nearest tankard, but Loki pulls it out of my grasp before I can do more than smell the alcohol. “Don’t even think about it.” I want to protest, but I know I’m not going to get through a complete sentence, and I don’t really relish further mockery. But instead of laughing some more, Loki looks over his shoulder and waves to someone. “Thrima, could you get us some water, please?”

“Right with you, sweetie,” I hear a woman’s voice call back.

I try holding my breath, but I’m not real hopeful. That works maybe one time out of five. Asmund rubs my back, the other warriors at the table stare at me in distaste, and I wish I could disappear. I drop my head onto the table so I don’t have to look at anyone.

“Here you go, kid,” the woman says, closer this time, and I hear a tankard on the table in front of me. I sit up and drink the water slowly, hiccuping three more times as I do. I turn in my seat to thank her, and immediately start choking. 

Thrima is a Valkyrie. An actual, honest-to-Thor  _ Valkyrie _ . She’s taller than I would be if I were sitting on my father’s shoulders, with enough muscle that I could see her wrestling any ten men in this hall without breaking a sweat, every inch of her body practically sings of her warriorhood. Her dark brown hair is unbound, tumbling in large curls over her bare shoulders. Instead of armor, she wears an elaborate gown that blends embroidered swan feathers with the real thing. I’ve never seen anything as white as that dress, and I don’t think anything but magic could be keeping it clean. The softness in her dress doesn’t contradict her strength for a moment, but celebrates it. I have no doubt that this woman could break anyone here in half if she so chose. Instead, she kneels on the floor to look me in the face while she gently asks if I’m alright.

Am I alright. Gods, what a question. My chest hurts, my stomach hurts, and I’m basically on fire with humiliation. But I’m not about to start crying on top of it all, so I nod. I mean, at least the choking got rid of the hiccups.

Thrima grins. Her teeth are just as white as her dress. She pats my head, and I can feel that each of her fingers is strong enough to break my skull, but she has enough control of that strength that she won’t leave so much as a bruise. “You’re one tough cookie, aren’t you,” she says sweetly.

It’s so obviously condescending that my stomach turns in knots, but I’m not about to get indignant to a freaking Valkyrie. I manage to clear my throat and get enough voice to speak.

“It’s, uh… it’s kind of been a weird night.”

“I’ll bet it has,” Thrima replies, and she actually pinches my cheek. Can I die now? That would be fun. “Well, you’d better get used to it if you’re going to hang around  _ this _ guy.”

She gestures towards Loki, who’s giving me that searching look again. I realize I’ve seen that look before, on Asmund’s face. It’s when he wants to make sure I haven’t hurt myself, but he’s not going to ask outright. There’s nothing like having a god and a Valkyrie start mothering you to make you feel incredibly small and fragile. Though, in fairness, I’m easily the most breakable thing in Valhalla.

Oh,  _ that’s _ a pleasant thought.

Thrima pats my head again, and promises to bring me a sweet for dessert. At this point I’ve accepted that my destiny for the night is to be perpetually embarrassed, and I just thank her. As she walks away, I skim the room for more of her kind. I catch little glimpses here and there… a skirt of raven feathers or a lock of golden hair… but for the most part the Valkyries are hidden by the sea of souls. Their job is to keep the warriors fed and happy, but it doesn’t look like anyone needs the kind of personal attention that I just recieved. The closest look I get is when another Valkyrie, one with bright red hair that falls almost to her feet, stops to flirt with Loki. She vanishes a moment later, having failed to get anything out of Loki but cool charm. I wonder if his reception would have been warmer if he were not taking care of me and my dad.

I take another draft of water from a tankard that has refilled itself - oh my gods, I want it - and turn back to my plate. Asmund has been cutting my boar up into smaller pieces. I sigh. Perpetually embarrassed.

I feel movement behind me, and a shadow falls over the table as someone taps Asmund on the shoulder.

“I hope you’re not planning to eat and run.”

Asmund tenses and turns slowly. 

I look over my shoulder to see a man that I have only heard described sparingly, on cold nights when the only thing anyone can feel is grief and sorrow. A young man with yellow hair that falls to his shoulders. The sparse bristles on his square jaw make him look far younger than the 25 years I know him to be. His back is straight as a spear, shoulders broad as an ox, and arms that I’m told once held a bear in a headlock so long that from that day forward it fled any human it saw. He’s the very image of what I always imagined the Valhalla warriors would look like.

This has to be Uncle Thorver.

My guess is confirmed when Asmund leaps up from the table and throws his arms around the man. I can’t tell where the hugging ends and the wrestling begins.

“Look at you! You look terrible!” Thorver laughs. His booming voice has enough force to make the cups and plates rattle on the table.

“ _ I  _ look terrible?” Asmund bellows gleefully. “At least my beard doesn’t look like I’ve pasted someone else’s trimmings to my face.”

“No, it just looks like you pasted a bunch of squirrels’ tails there and then fell into a snowdrift.”

“Well,  _ you… _ ”

Loki sighs next to me, and I look back to see him rolling his eyes. “This? Right here? This is why I don’t do guy friends.”

I snicker. “I thought one of your ‘god of’ things was insulting people.”

“Exactly,” he replies. “This is just weak.”

Thorver and Asmund finish their friendly mudslinging with a hug that looks like it should end with somebody’s ribs breaking. Then they squeeze back onto the bench, side by side. Thorver sits next to me, and I’m able to appreciate just how big he is.

“This must be your little squeaker,” he grins. I’m not wild about being referred to as a baby pig, but I’m numb to humiliation at this point.

“Hildrid,” I say smoothly, offering my hand. “So, is it true Dad once cut off all your hair and used it to make a Freya doll for a girl he liked?”

Thorver throws his head back and laughs so hard, the rafters vibrate. Asmund turns pure sanguine and covers his face with both hands. Loki slaps me on the back.

“Oh, how dare you,” says Thorver, still laughing. There are tears on his face, and - to my eternal delight - he hiccups.

“I was  _ seven, _ ” Asmund groans, trying to hide in his tankard. He’s regretted telling me that story since the moment it was out of his mouth. Not because it shames his big brother, but because the girl in question laughed in his face.

“I wanted to murder you,” Thorver says fondly. “I helped siege a fortress, came home with more loot than would fit in our house, celebrated with my friends half the night, and woke up looking like a family of rabbits had been chewing on my head.”

“Shouldn’t have gotten so drunk,” I tell him. Asmund snorts water out of his nose. 

Thorver slaps my back like I’m one of his brothers-in-arms. “Exactly what Mother told me.” He turns to Asmund. “Oh, tell me she lived to meet this kid.”

Dad’s smile fades, his eyes grow withdrawn. “... No. No, she was already gone twenty years before Hildrid came along.”

“I see,” says Thorver, in a hoarse voice that shouldn’t carry above Valhalla’s racket, but nonetheless strikes right in the center of my chest. “At least she saw both her sons into manhood.”

“There is that,” Asmund agrees solemnly.

Uncle Thorver turns and smiles at me. “Your grandmother would have loved you,” he assures me. “You’re the spitting image of her.”

“Um. Thank you.” My face turns hot. I like Uncle Thorver, and I don’t want to disappoint him by revealing that I’m not actually his brother’s birth daughter. I meet Asmund’s eyes, hoping he’ll tell me what to do.

Dad smiles softly. “I’ve often thought the same thing,” he says.

There isn’t really anything I can say to that.

Thorver raises his gaze over my head, and I follow it. Loki has turned around in his seat and is leaning against the table, eyes glazed over as he drinks. I don’t believe for a moment that he’s ignoring us.

“Loki Laufeyjarson,” my uncle says respectfully. “A word, if I may.”

Loki turns a completely disinterested gaze to Thorver. “Yeah?”

If Thorver is offended or annoyed by Loki’s attitude, he doesn’t give a hint of it. “A little raven told me that you are the reason my brother and niece are alive tonight. For that I give my most heartfelt thanks. If ever my sword can serve you, you need but say the word.”

Loki turns contemplative for a moment, and then his face breaks into the scariest grin I’ve ever seen. “An Einherjar swearing service to the Wolf’s Father,” he muses, half to himself. “Old One-Eye’s going to love that.”

“Odin knew who I was when he selected me for his army,” Thorver returns.

Loki raises an eyebrow. “And who are you, Thorver-the-barely-bearded?”

Thorver smiles humbly. “Merely a man whose mother was devoted to the God of Revelry.”

“And your father to the God of Thunder, if that name is anything to go by.”

“Yeah,” Thorver shrugs. “It made for an interesting childhood.”

“I’ll bet.”

 

I’m not sure when I fell asleep. One minute, Loki is warming up to my uncle, and the next I’m curled up on the bench, wrapped in a yellow cloak… the three-quarters of it not stiff with dried blood. I sit up groggily, rubbing my eyes. Loki puts his hand out, but I’m careful not to fall. Asmund and Thorver look deep in conversation. Asmund glances over at me and then turns back to his brother.

“We should be getting some rest,” he says. “It’s been a crazy night.”

“You think  _ you’re _ having a weird night,” Thorver retorts merrily. “I just found out my baby brother is twice my age.”

“I was turned into an acorn because the jotnar put a hit on my teenage daughter,” Asmund replies.

“Always needing to one-up me,” Thorver laughs. He and Asmund hug again. I guess it’s time to go.

“You’ll take care of the little squeaker,” Thorver says to Loki with confidence. “But I hope you’ll look after Asmund too. He’s a good dad, and those are hard to come by.” He offers his hand to Loki, who takes it with an amused expression.

Then Uncle Thorver bends down and lightly kisses the top of my head. “I hope you’ll come back and see me. Alive, I mean. I never had children of my own, and I’ve missed too much of your life already.”

“Sure,” I mumble, blushing. I’m not usually shy, but I’m too tired to think straight and not really used to this kind of affection from anyone but Dad. “I’d like that. I mean, if Odin will let me in.”

“I bet your new friend will teach you how to sneak in,” says Thorver, a glint in his eye.

“I have no idea what you mean by that,” says Loki, but he’s raising his eyebrows and nodding emphatically.

I giggle and, impulsively, hug Thorver around his neck. “It was good to meet you, Uncle.”

Thorver hugs back tightly. Even if the story of him wrestling a bear isn’t true, I can understand how the rumor got started. Then he lets me go and ruffles my hair.

Even with more than five hundred doors to choose from, the exit seems impossibly far away. I’m heavy with more than I’ve ever eaten in my life, and I’m really starting to feel the effects of being awake all night. I think I stumble twice before Loki just picks me up and carries me on his hip like a toddler. I didn’t even notice him grow bigger, but I suppose he must have. I can see all the way to Odin’s dias now. Or, I could if my eyes didn’t keep blurring over. 

Maybe I could just fall asleep against Loki’s shoulder. There’s a little voice in my head warning me that it’s dangerous to lower your guard around The Trickster, but would it really be that much more dangerous than being awake? It’s not like I could stop him if he decided to do something. It’s the jostling motion of his long strides that keeps me awake more than any sense of caution.

When we get to the door, a blast of cold winter air wakes me up. “I can walk,” I insist. I don’t like to be helpless if I don’t have to be.

Loki smirks and puts me down. He resumes a normal height so quickly and fluidly that I can’t even see him change, even though my eyes never leave him this time. The stories always say he’s powerful and subtle, but now I can put real imagery to the words.

I take Dad’s hand and brace myself for another march through the snow.

_ “Don’t you take another step.” _

Asmund freezes, then turns slowly, pushing me behind him. I peer around his body to see a grizzled soldier in sweat-stained gambeson. He is maybe four or five years younger than my father. There’s a raised white scar running from the center his forehead to his right temple, just barely avoiding his eye. His lip is pulled back in a haughty sneer that’s nearly hidden by his grey-and-brown streaked beard.

“Asmund,” the man croaks. His eyes burn with utter contempt.

Dad’s fist clenches and releases several times before he speaks.

“Father.”


End file.
